Changeable
by PartialAnomaly
Summary: What if James Moriarty woke up one day to find he couldn't remember anything—and he wasn't acting? Rated T because Moriarty is a bit of a potty mouth
1. Chapter 1

I woke up to my head feeling like it was bound to implode, full of a relentless fire I couldn't quench. The world was spinning and I couldn't see straight, the light burned my eyes until they felt like they were bleeding. I curled up in a moment of pain, holding my hands to my eyes to block out the light. When I decided I was feeling slightly better and should experiment with the notion of standing up, I stumbled and was forced to use one arm to brace myself against the wall. Its surface felt cool and clammy against me as I tried to regulate my breathing pattern. My heartbeat was beating in a furious frenzy of no apparent rhythm, echoing inside my head.

Slowly, my surroundings faded into focus. I was in a small room that was very sparse and lacking much in the category of decoration. The walls were a boring and drab shade of beige; and the floor was made of the usual dull hardwood. There was a small single bed, and I found it odd that I had been passed out on the floor and not in the bed that was two feet away from where I lay. The sheets were made and tucked in, with no obvious signs of use, which matched the pillow with no head-dent in it to signify someone had rested there. A Grandfather clock stood tall to the left of the bed, its unique braided pattern looking more than amiss in the dreadfully non-stimulating room. I finally gained enough of my normal eyesight back to read the time. Half-past two. In the morning? Peering outside, I could confirm it was half-past two in the afternoon, not in the morning. I was in what appeared to be a motel of some sort. From the window, I could spot multitudes of cabs whizzing by, and the whole world seemed to be bustling and joyous and- aware of something I wasn't. Then it finally struck me like an anvil made of obvious fell on my face. Who am I?

I couldn't remember my name, what I did for a living, how I ended up here, when I was born—any of it. I let the feeling of unknown dread sink in. Then I began to come down with a very sudden and very real panic attack. I searched myself for any evidence that could spark a cascade of memories to reappear, throwing my shoes off and even my crisp, black suit jacket. The shoes made loud thuds but so did the jacket—which I thought to be very curious. Jackets don't normally make thud noises, unless something is heavy enough in one of the pockets. In an instant I had swiped my hand into the right pocket and pulled out a cell phone.

It was your basic smart phone of today, nothing amiable in particular stood out about it. No name was labeled or etched into either the phone or the phone case, and it was shiny and scratch-free. I clicked the button that turned the phone on, but I encountered a lock screen. It wanted a password.

Well isn't this just my day.

I can't remember anything and that includes the password for my phone—which could very well hold the answer to my problems—or at the least a contact who could answer my questions.

Shit.

My panic attack morphed into something that was more akin to a temper tantrum. I threw the phone vigorously onto the bed as if it would magically enter the password and unlock the damn thing. I screamed in frustration and pulled at my short black hair, trying to tug the memories out with it.

"GOD DAMN IT ALL!" I snarled rather animalistic-like and blew air out of my nose. There was probably steam leaking out of my ears. I caught view of a mirror on the wall opposite the bed, and saw my face was indeed very flushed. My eyes were like those on a shark, dark and bottomless, the kind found on a predator that played with his prey before he killed it. I honestly looked like a mad man—and for all I could remember, maybe I was.

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**NOTE: You have no idea how fun this is to write. No. Idea. I feel evil in torturing Moriarty, but hey- what can I say? I have a little Moriarty in me. **


	2. Chapter 2

After the blinding white-hot flash of rage had taken over and exited my body, I fell backwards onto the bed. Staring at the ceiling, my eyes roved over the little chips and divots in the paint, trying to find anything of interest to ease my mind. I was unsuccessful in my endeavor. I had to learn to control my temper better, or I could do much worse in the future than throwing a few things around. I knew I was entirely capable of more terrifying bouts of anger, and I didn't want to find out more on the subject.

It was at that moment the silence was decimated by the obnoxious ringtone of my phone. I bolted upright, startled by the sudden noise. The chorus of Stayin' Alive droned into my eardrums. The Beegees? Really? Why the hell did I choose Stayin' Alive as my ring tone? I must have horrendous taste in music. Or maybe it was just something I did because I found it amusing. Either way, I had no way to mute it because of the god damn lock screen that was still in my way, so I shoved it under a pillow and sat on it, attempting to suffocate the noise. It still garbled through the pillow, but at least it was muffled and much less annoying. When silence fell after the phone had ceased ringing, I yanked it out from under me. The screen read "Missed call from: Sebastian Moran. New Voicemail from: Sebastian Moran."

Tell me about it, you useless device. None of it matters when I DON'T KNOW THE FLIPPING PASSCODE!

Since my phone would be of no help until I figured out how to crack the lock, I had to develop a plan.

1. Go down to the front desk of this hideous establishment and ask the receptionist at the customer check-in a few basic questions:

a )What name I had been signed into the room as

b) If I was in the company of another person (or more than one)

c) When I had been signed in

d) what emotional/mental state I appeared to be in

e) If I had any luggage and/or bags on me

2. Depending on the information, continue to form plan.

With that, I strolled out of the room and took note of the room number: 221. How odd. That number sounded vaguely familiar. Ah, it was probably something trivial. I needn't worry about such small things at a time like this. More time for that later.

My footsteps reverberated against the marble floor tiles and the ceiling, which was dotted every few feet or so with a cheap-looking chandelier. Paintings of random landscapes or famous monuments were randomly hung on the walls, trying to draw attention away from the general feeling of being quite abandoned. I was coming to think I was the only living person there when I reached the elevator. It opened with a ding reminiscent of a toaster having finished toasting some bread, revealing a couple and their two small children. The aura quickly changed from lonely to awkward.

I smiled nervously as if to say hello, then pressed myself up to the other side of the elevator, as far away from the family as possible. By this point, I had figured out I was extremely anti-social, and had an urge to avoid as much human contact as possible. One of the children, who I thought to be the youngest, seemed to find my face particularly interesting, his big eyes taking me in, prying away, staring into my soul. I narrowed my eyes at him. I was thoroughly creeped out by the time we reached the ground floor, grateful to be able to escape that metal death trap and that staring child. He and his family had departed the motel, leaving me all alone.

I briskly approached the front desk. It was vacant. This could serve a problem. I rang the little bell that sat there, and waited a few minutes. No one showed. I rang it again. Still no one. Hm. This was beginning to get on my nerves. I decided to serve myself, so I snuck around the desk to find the check-in logs. I dug through some piles of paper until I found the clip board buried near the bottom. I traced my finger down the side, looking for yesterday's date. Wait. What day was it? I checked the calendar that was hanging lop-sided on the wall adjacent to the desk, the day circled in red marker. The third. Right. That makes yesterday the second. I re-traced my finger down the side, looking for any check-ins on the second. Bingo. I followed the row to the farthest left box, where names were scrawled out in various shades of pen ink. There, written in what I assumed was my handwriting, was the name "James M." Only the initial for my last name was printed there.

Damn.

Well, at least I had figured out my first name. That made me feel a little better. But what still struck me as odd is how I woke up with no knowledge of myself, but I could still remember things like who was currently Prime Minister or where places were. It was also strange how I had no luggage whatsoever on me, and I hadn't bothered to write my last name down on the log. Slowly, a thought dawned on me. Maybe I didn't write down my last name for a bigger reason than being too lazy. Maybe I was somebody important that couldn't risk being tracked. There was a fascinating concept that actually made sense. I obviously had to have enemies, and maybe I was playing possum trying to avoid them. Whoever called my phone must be one of the only people in on it, if not THE only. He wouldn't have called if he thought I was dead. But he also wouldn't call if he knew I had no recollection of my past, as well as my password so I could answer.

All of this was really too much to take in at once. I paced the lobby, muttering my name under my breath. "James. Jamessssss." I drew out the S like a snake hiss, and proceeded to list off possible last names starting with the letter M. "Morris. Mormon. Mallard. Mackey. Middleton. McCarthy." None of them sounded right. There was nothing left for me in this downcast place, not that there was anything to begin with. I had to find out my identity. What better place to do that than at a police station? I clapped my hands together like a child receiving a wonderful birthday gift, and practically skipped out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn't bad outside. I was lucky. If it was raining, I wouldn't have been able to hail a cab, because I didn't have a wallet or any sort of money on me. I did, however, discover my sunglasses hiding in the pocket where my phone was. This was also nice, because the sun was bright and I still had a slight migraine. I unfolded them and perched them on my face, taking a deep breath of fresh air. Well, as fresh as it comes in a city full of air-polluting cars and garbage-producing people. I combed my fingers through my hair nervously before setting off towards the police station.

People bustled by on their normal daily schedules and grocery store runs, blabbing on their cell phones and possessing a general disregard for those around them, paying no attention to where they were going. I ended up swerving around quite a few businessmen with their black suitcases and carry-ons. This started me pondering what items people normally carried in a suitcase: clothes, books, files, phones, laptops, memos—out of which, I was lucky to have at least clothes and my phone.

I passed a couple cafés, restaurants, clothes stores, and tourist traps, none of which rang any bells. Ironically, this is when my phone started singing again.

"Oh, for f*cks sake!"

I cursed out loud as I dug the godforsaken thing out of my pocket once again. It read "Incoming call from: Sebastian Moran."

Really? Again? Can't you take the hint that I'm either dead or otherwise incapacitated? Or maybe I just don't want to answer my phone? Or maybe the fact that I CAN'T answer my phone? People were snickering at me because of the Beegees it was insisting upon spewing.

The phone beeped and quieted itself once more. Sebastian Moran had left yet another voicemail. Charming. Once I had regain my memory, I thought, I'd chew him out for being so annoying and pushy. Other than shoving my way through a dense throng of people, it was a rather uneventful walk to the police station.

Upon my arrival, I glanced around for a clock. It was quarter to three. I had made it in a sufficient amount of time. My feet ached from the trip, my shoes were clearly not meant for long walking distances. Either that or I hadn't worn them in yet. I had a feeling that I was driven around a lot and neglected to transport myself via walking anywhere, the bottom of my shoes weren't worn in the slightest. Maybe the shoes were new. I sat down on a bench to rest my feet and fiddle with my phone for a few minutes. Nothing I entered worked. I almost threw it into the trash can next to me, but just before it left my grasp I decided against it. I bit my bottom lip and locked eyes with a red-eyed pigeon that was wandering around me.

"What are you looking at?"

It just bobbed its head and continued meandering and minding its own business, probably hoping I had food on me. Food. I realized I was hungry. I hadn't eaten since…well, I couldn't remember! I had passed all those cafés, restaurants and pubs and I hadn't noticed my stomach aching from being so empty. I wouldn't have minded a nice long drink of water either. The only problem was; I had no money still. Suddenly, that pigeon looked awfully tasty.

I stood up abruptly, sending the pigeon into a feather-flapping frenzy in another direction.

"NOPE!" I spoke loudly, emphasizing the P. If I had gotten weird looks before when my phone rang, these people thought I was nuts- which I was content with, because it was an understatement.

I found a drinking fountain to relinquish my thirst, wiping my mouth with my sleeve.

"Ahh. Much better." My throat was no longer parched, but my stomach was still a black hole. I turned on my heel to face the police station. It was now or never. Now was preferable to the latter. In an almost comedic fashion, I pushed open the front door with both hands, and took a step inside.

As the cool air-conditioned air turned the sweat on my skin into ice, I observed my surroundings. Secretaries and policemen milled around, chatted, read over files, or yelled at un-cooperative computers. It was much like a police sitcom set, expect with real people with real guns who caught real criminals. I took off my sunglasses and snorted, too immersed in the hilarity of the situation to notice a small woman heading straight for me, her face buried in a stack of files she was carrying. She barged directly into me, files and papers flying every which way, floating chaotically to the ground. She immediately squeaked and apologies started pouring out of her mouth as she squatted down to pick everything up. Her mousey brown hair was pulled into a loose braid that hung over one shoulder, and she donned a bright white lab coat. She was most likely a doctor, scientist, or coroner of some sort.

"Ah, I'm sorry." I bid my apologies as well, and decided it best to help her, even though I was bitter because it was her fault she had run into me in the first place. It was then she looked up to thank me for my assistance, and a look of what I could only describe as pure horror spread across her face like wildfire. The hairs on her neck stood on end, her brown irises were ringed in white, and her mouth fell slightly agape.

"…Is something the matter…?" My eyebrows were brought together in confusion, as well as a hint of fear. This woman recognized me. And by what I could read as plain as day on her face, she didn't like what she was seeing. She was trying to form words as the files slipped back out of her hands to rest on the floor again, but nothing came out but splutters and gasps. Finally, she managed to half screech and half scream, "LESTRADE!"

I jumped up and back a little ways in surprise, my heart was racing like it did when I first woke up that morning, the migraine started coming back, and I stumbled and almost fell backwards. What was going on? How did this woman know me? Why was she so afraid?

A man with speckled gray hair and a donut in hand stomped out of a nearby office, letting the door slam itself shut. "WHAT IS IT, MOLLY?! IT COULDN'T HAVE WAITED UNTIL AFTER BREAK TIME?! CAN **NOTHING **WAIT UNTIL AFTER BREAK TIME!?" If I weren't so terrified I think I'd laugh, he fit the stereotypical-cop look far too well for his own good. His face was flushed and his mouth was full of fried pastry. Molly, or whoever she was, slowly pointed a shaky finger in my direction.

I think that was the first time I saw a cop almost choke on a donut.

* * *

**NOTE: Yes, this chapter is the second longest so far. I think around 1000-2000 words is a good length per chapter? And no, don't worry, Lestrade won't die from the donut incident. I swear.**


	4. Chapter 4

This was also my first time (that I could remember) having my arms uncomfortably pulled behind my back, wrists clamped together by handcuffs, and myself being chucked into a holding cell. As they slammed the door shut, I yelled "AT LEAST TELL ME WHAT I'M GUILTY OF!"

No response. They were already gone.

Despite my insisting that I had no idea why I was being arrested, I had ended up sitting on a cold, hard bench, in front of a cold, hard table, counting the number of bars there were in the window. I sighed, wriggling my wrists a little to try and get some more blood to flow. No such luck. The metal was digging painfully into my skin, pinching it in such a way I thought it would leave bruises.

I tried to distract myself from the pain by thinking. So, I was right about being important. In a way. There was no way on earth they were going to believe that I had no idea who I was, and because of that I could be trapped here forever. At least I might be able to figure out my full name before I rotted to death in this cell.

They had confiscated my cell phone and my sunglasses, leaving me virtually possession-less. Good luck with cracking that password, I thought. You can't get it out of me because I can't remember it. Not a single letter or digit. I leaned my head back to rest on the head rest, if you could call it that. It was just a plank of metal attached to the chair with two identical metal rods. I closed my eyes and counted to ten, and released a puff of air, and repeated.

The woman I had bumped into earlier came in to visit. She undid my handcuffs, which I thanked her graciously for. Then she started talking.

All she really did was ask if I was hungry and started pointing out the pleasantries of the weather. I could tell by her posture and her tone of voice that she didn't want to be anywhere near, or have anything to do with, me.

I interrupted her rambling by yawning.

"You're boring. But I am famished, thanks for offering." I waved her away with one hand, and then dropped it back down to rub feeling back into my wrists.

She shot me a quick glare. "You're not as nice as you used to be, Jim."

Jim? Did she just call me by my name?

I stood up quickly from my chair and slammed my hands down on the table, leaning forward. "You know my name? How do you know my name?"

She stopped short of opening the door. "I…well, we…uhm. We went out on a few dates awhile back…"

Dates? You can't be serious. This woman held nothing- no attributes- that appealed to me whatsoever.

"And?"

She became even more fidgety and rigid in the back, if it were at all possible. "You, uhm, you disappeared. I hadn't heard from you since. I'll go get your food for you now." She looked back at me and gave an attempted smile, before exiting the room.

Maybe a half-hour or so later after the woman had returned with my food and left again, I heard the door creak open and glide shut quickly behind whoever had entered. Without opening my eyes, I said, "Come to join me? I was getting rather lonely in here all by myself." I spoke in a sing-song voice, trying to lighten the mood.

A tall man with dark, curly unkempt hair stood, rather intimidating-like, in front of me. His piercing eyes were a bright green—no, blue. No, they kept changing color. His lips were pursed in a slight scowl, accentuating his cheekbones, as if he weren't at all pleased to see me. He wore a blue scarf wrapped around his neck, a purple button down shirt, and a long black trench coat.

A shiver went up my spine when I noticed how intensely he was eyeing me. It was as if he was contemplating my very existence. It was one of the most unnerving things a person could experience.

"Do I know you?"

It seemed like a simple enough question to ask.

"…" The man sat in the chair across from me and crossed one leg over the other; his fingertips touching each other to give the appearance of prayer. But he wasn't praying. He was thinking.

"…Do I know you?"

I asked again, pushing the question on him, hoping he'd answer. After a long interval of cold, unfeeling eye contact, he responded.

"...No."

I tilted my head so I could examine him better. Hm. He's lying.

"You're lying." The corners of my mouth turned up in a half-smile. "Good try though. Is this a test? If it is, you got an A for effort."

"I am most certainly not lying."

"Yes, you are. I can read it in those pretty eyes of yours." I removed my head from the headrest, rested my elbows on the tabletop, and my chin on my fists. "Don't lie to me, it doesn't work. It may work on most normal people, but I'm not most normal people." I was getting a kick out of testing the waters; this man was like a shark. Cool and calm under pressure, but he had that same predatory glint in his eyes that I did.

"…Fine, I was lying. It was a test."

"That's a good boy. Thank you for telling the truth." I shifted my head's weight to rest upon one fist instead of both, and began tracing a circle on the table's metallic surface with my index finger. I flicked my eyes up to meet his gaze again.

"What's your name? It would be so much easier to address you if I knew it."

The man took his precious time to answer. I could tell he didn't feel inclined to answer right away; I wasn't going anywhere so he didn't have to rush, he just had to go his own favorable pace.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Ooh. Unusual name. Kind of old-fashioned, isn't it? It fits you."

"Mm."

"What about mine?"

"Your what?"

"My name. What is my name?"

"James. You prefer Jim."

I rolled my eyes. "My FULL name, please."

"James…Moriattis."

I narrowed my eyes. I couldn't tell if he was lying or not this time.

"…Okay then. There's a start. But, what I'd really like to know is who I am. As a person, what have I done that has all of you so…" I brought my hands out from under my chin, spreading my arms out like I had wings. "…excited?"

"You disappeared. You were supposed to be dead."

"You sound disappointed that I'm not." I folded my arms behind my head; fingers entwined, and put my feet up on the table, crossing my legs. "Have I upset you?" I unraveled my fingers from each other and brought one to my cheek, drawing a line from my eye to my chin, imitating a tear.

"We weren't on the best of terms, no."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that. We can have a nice fresh start this time! Try not to piss me off and everything should go absolutely smashingly!"

"Let's hope so."

"Do please continue on telling me the extravagant tale of…well, me!"

"You worked in IT at the hospital near here. That's where you met Molly."

"Ew. I could do better than her."

"She has her moments."

I stirred my thoughts around in my head. Time for a subject changer. I don't want to waste my precious time gossiping about that obnoxious nurse or whatever the hell she is.

"Find out the password to my phone yet?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, I've forgotten it, you are in possession of the phone, and you seem like a very brilliant man, Sherlock. I just put everything together and knew that it would logically make sense that you've figured it out already."

"Then yes, I have."

"Mind telling me?"

"I'd rather not."

"Why's that? Still resentful over whatever I happened between us?"

"I suppose."

"All of your answers are very _vague, _you know."

"What was that old adage again? Ah yes, 'beggars can't be choosers.'"

I let out a huff of disagreement but chose to say no more.

Sherlock's phone beeped. He checked the message then stood up and pushed his chair in. "I should be on my way now. It's late, and my friend is insisting we eat out tonight."

"Oooh, who's the lucky lady?" I wolf whistled shrilly at him.

Sherlock groaned. "It's a man."

"Oh ho ho, whatever works for you," I laughed, clapping my hands together.

He gave me one last glance as sharp and cold as ice, and then departed from the room.

I rose from my seat and walked to the cot they had supplied me with, plopping down upon it. The day had sucked the energy right out of me, and I went out like a light.

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**NOTE: Oh ho ho ho, Moriarty, you dog. Anyways, I'm not sure if it was clear enough in the story, but Sherlock is coming up with a make-shift identity for Moriarty, in fear that if he was told the truth he'd turn back into a psychotic, killing-spree fanatic, consulting criminal. Thanks to my friend Gideon Moriattis for your suggestions. ^_^b**


	5. Chapter 5

I opened my eyes. It was pitch black. Sitting up, I rubbed my eyes. I opened them again. Nope, still too dark to make out anything—yet I could still see myself. I waved my hands in front of my face. No light source anywhere, and I wasn't glowing, but I could still see myself. _That makes no sense._

_Oh. A dream._

Standing up, I turned around a full 360. All nothingness with a splash of darkness. This is a dull dream. It could at least be more colorful. Suddenly, I heard a voice echo through the abyss.

"Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii," It rang out. I whipped my head around to try and pinpoint it.

"Having trouble finding me?"

I turned to where I heard it coming from again, this time a bit closer.

"Wow, you're not so good at this, are you?"

Again. Even closer. I couldn't seem to locate it because it kept moving.

"I'm right here."

Yet again. Really close.

"Right. Here."

This time it was a whisper directly in my ear; someone was leaning in from behind me. I could feel their breath on my neck, making the hairs there stand up on end. I turned around abruptly to come face to face with—

Me.

_I think my mind took my request to make this more colorful a bit the wrong way._

I smirked. Well, he smirked. It was as if I were looking into a mirror. A really twisted mirror with a sense of humor to match.

_Wow, do I always look that smug when I smirk?_

"Surprise, surprise," duplicate-me said, holding his arms out like I had earlier when talking to Sherlock.

"What's so surprising about this? It's just a dream." _I don't like this 'other me' so far._

The other me gasped, feigning being offended by my comment, placing one hand on his chest, and the other arm over his forehead dramatically, leaning back to accentuate it even further.

"Oh! How could you! I'm appalled! And here I thought you'd be overflowing with joy to see me!"

"And why would that be, exactly?" I crossed my arms defensively.

"You're the one who wants your memories back. There's one more person who wants your memories back even more than you, though."

"And who would that be?"

"Me!" Placing both hands on his chest this time, he flashed a cheeky grin.

"But…you're me. How could you want something back even more than yourself?"

He shook his head, tutting. "Ah ah ah, you're overcomplicating things," he clasped his hands together. "I'm the real us, you're just an empty shell. A body without its soul, if you will. Quite literally, actually. Memories make up a soul." He tapped his forehead with one finger.

_What?_

"So…let me get this straight. You're the me…if I still had all my memories."

"Yes. Good, good! We're finally getting somewhere."

"In a way…you're my sub-consciousness."

He nodded, cocking his head slightly to the side like I always found myself doing, sniffing rather disdainfully.

"My goodness, I never thought I'd ever find myself so…dull."

"Excuse me? You actually have to go as far as to insult YOURSELF? I can tell we have an ego to withhold, but that's just a bit too much."

"Well, you're not really me. Physically, yes. Mentally? Heavens, no. And cut me some slack, here. I'm the one trapped somewhere in your noggin, watching everything unfold, but not able to do anything about it."

_I'd never thought I'd be cross with myself before. Not like this. I'm just a snobby know-it-all._

"Then help me remember, and we can both be happy."

"That's as good of a start as any."

"I'm glad we can come to a compromise. Now, do go on."

"For starters- you are not who they say you are."

"Then who am I?"

"You're the best of the best. You're the best of the worst. You're the worst of the worst."

"…What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He sighed irritably.

"You're the best at what you do. You're the best at things most people look down upon. You're the worst because you're the best at doing bad things."

"Uh. Okay?" I was still rather befuddled until I winced. Images flashed before my eyes; violent, gruesome images. Death, death everywhere, laughter, maniacal laughter; hands; hands soaked in blood. I was reeling in pain; it was all coming too fast and all at once.

"You, my friend, are none other than THE James Moria-"

Then I woke up.

What convenient timing. I was covered in a cold sweat, gasping for air like I had been drowning in the blood I had envisioned.

The timing was even more convenient when Sherlock walked in. I sat bolt upright. He looked at me inquisitively.

"Don't lie to me," I managed to choke out.

Sherlock looked confused.

"You lied to me. You all lied."

"About what, Jim?"

"About ME! About whom I am!"

"No, we didn't, Jim."

I put my face in my hands, trying to sort real from fiction. "But he…but I said-"My memories started fading again.

"Said what, Jim?" A concerned look flashed across his features, which was particularly odd, because I knew he didn't really like me all that much. Was he concerned for a different reason than my state of wellbeing?

"I…I can't remember," I slumped back against the headboard of the cot. "I have a killer migraine right now…" I rubbed my temples, trying to coax the sharp, throbbing pain away. "I've had enough of monstrous head pains since yesterday."

"Molly should be in soon to bring you your breakfast. I thought I should wake you up first so she didn't startle you." The concerned look he had worn earlier had vanished like a wisp of wind.

"Oh." I gulped, but that only made my headache worse. "Thanks."

"Mm."

Sherlock traipsed out of the door as nonchalantly as he had arrived through it. He poked his head quickly back out to say, "Oh yes, I almost forgot to tell you. My friend John will be here today, so please be nice. Much appreciated."

"Fine. Whatever." I spat out a few words, refraining from saying much because making any sort of noise just turned the volume up on my migraine.

With Sherlock finally gone, I strained my mind as much as I could to try and recall what had happened in my dream. There was the presence of another version of me, and lots of blood, the red liquid was spattered everywhere, staining my conscience with its scarlet red hue, but hiding the rest of the vision behind its liquid layers. Why do I feel like if I could just wipe that wall away I would find my memories sitting there, waiting for me? They kept drifting closer into my sights just to be plucked away and placed even farther away than before. It was maddening. Downright so.

This Sherlock character. He was interesting. He wasn't like the rest. I had to stick with him as much as I could, and maybe things would be slowly revealed to me. It was also an appealing thought that I could talk with someone who was on the same intellectual level as I was. And even if I couldn't get past his iron resolve, I could try and crack the surface with this John he had mentioned.

Time to get down to business.

* * *

NOTE: OH MY GODTISS I am so sorry for this late update. I've been panicking about school starting and everything that I just can't seem to get anything done! I also had another neat story idea involving Moriarty, so...yeah! Next chapter will probably consist of Moriarty meeting John and getting punched in the face. Until then, toodles~ ^o^/~*


	6. Chapter 6

My plan was a fairly simple one—at least, it was in theory. Obviously there were going to be bugs in it, but even the most perfect plans do.

Sherlock arrived, his attire looking as impeccable as ever, while I was in a simple t-shirt and jeans—the suit had to be washed, and frankly I was relieved to have a change of clothes. I had some ridiculous tracking device strapped to my ankle that they refused to let me go anywhere without. The thing made one leg slightly heavier, so walking was sort of awkward until I got used to it.

I was just about to tail Sherlock out of the door when he turn around and forced me to halt.

"I didn't say you could leave yet, Jim."

A whine of annoyance escaped my lips. "Whyyyyyyyyyy? Why can't I leave yet?"

"Since you are suffering from amnesia, it is highly likely you have suffered some sort of traumatic injury or event that triggered it. You need to get checked out, and until then, you're staying put."

"I'm not a LIBRARY BOOK, and I do what I want, thank you."

"No." He smiled smugly. "Now wait here and I will fetch John."

_John? Ohhh. He's the doctor. This is a great opportunity you're handing me, Sherlie!_

"Fine." I convincingly scowled to mask my glee before I stamped back over to my brick of a bed and sat down on it.

The door clicked open and who I assumed to be John entered.

"Ah. Hello, John." I tried to be as courteous and as polite as was possible, I didn't want to scare him and his valuable information away. I would treat him like a wounded wild animal.

I had a feeling that's what he would treat me like in kind.

Barely looking up, he muttered a small "Oh, yes, hello."

"So…you're Sherlock's friend, then?" I chided.

"Colleague." He still wouldn't look up from his blasted clipboard.

"Sooo…is he single?"

John's head whipped up in a flash. A smile played on my lips. That worked; _so that's the button I need to push._

"Yes." He voice strained and cracked slightly, so he cleared his throat and went back to eyeing whatever was scrawled on his clipboard. "But he's married to his work."

I snorted, prompting another look from John.

"That line sounds awfully rehearsed, doesn't it?"

Pursing his lips together, John looked at me disapprovingly. "It's what he said; ask him about it later, not me."

_I'm having too much fun with this._

"When did he say this? Sounds like you tried asking him out or someth-"

"WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP FOR ONE SECOND, JAMES." Realizing he had shouted gruffly, he lowered his voice. "Please."

_Fiesty. I can see why Sherlock keeps him around. But people do get SO sentimental about their pets._

"Right, fine. I'm sorry." The apology tasted bitter on my tongue and I didn't mean it.

"Mm." He walked over to me and took my pulse, wrote some stuff down, checked my eyes and whatnot, scribbling down notes as he went. I decided just to go along with it.

"We're going to have to get you in for a CT scan," he nodded affirmatively. "I don't see any external injuries that would have caused amnesia, so the cause was probably an event, but that's for the CT scan to figure out."

"Yes, Doctor," I sneered.

"Follow me, then," he said, choosing to ignore my snide leer. Obediently, I followed behind. We drove to St. Bart's, which at the mention of the hospital's name, a twinge jabbed my head and had a momentary feeling as if I were choking, but it faded as fast as it had hit me. The walls were almost as boring as the ones at the motel from before, but at least they were sterile, and the wallpaper wasn't peeling off in strips or anything. After the scan, we sat waiting for the results. Doctor Watson was reading through the notes he had taken earlier, and I was twiddling my thumbs and whistling random tunes. _Time for some more fun._

"How long have you known Sherlock for, then?" I broke the silence first.

Looking up, his gaze unwavering, he said "A little over four years now."

"Ah, I see. How'd you come across such an interesting fellow as himself? It must have been a very colorful meeting, I can only imagine." I giggled, looking off into the distance for a moment before locking my eyes back on his dark gray ones.

"I came back from Afghanistan. I was looking for a flatmate to help pay off the rent of a decent flat, when one of my old friends introduced me to Sherlock."

Glancing him over once more, I smirked broadly. "Honorable discharge, then?"

"Yes." The implied question of "How did you know?" Hung in the air and implied itself quite heavily without any actual verbal consent.

"You were shot," I noted, staring pointedly at one of his legs, slowly bringing them to a stop at one of his shoulders. "In the shoulder."

A slight look of surprise flickered across his otherwise emotionless features, but quickly faltered back to blank.

"Yes, I was."

"So then you came back here and went on the hunt for a flatmate because the military pension paid crap."

"Right again."

"What about you, then?"

"Hm?"

"Do you have a girlfriend?" _Here it goes!_

"No. Well, yes. Kind of."

"What is that supposed to mean? It's either yes or no," I crossed my legs and tried to get comfortable in the chair, but to no avail.

"It's complicated." He clicked his pen absentmindedly, twirling it around in his fingers.

"So a boyfriend, then."

Spluttering and turning a slight shade of red, Doctor Watson retorted "No. I've been in several on and off relationships—with WOMEN, mind you- they just haven't been going well."

"And that's because…?"

Leaning forward and setting his clipboard down on the seat behind him, John never left my gaze. "I don't know, it just hasn't—what're you trying to get at, here? For the last time, Sherlock is NOT my boyfriend, no matter who says he is!" His face had denial written all over it.

I gasped in delight. "I'm not the only one who sees how blatantly obvious your affection is for him? May I inquire who else shares my opinion?"

"Just because it's your opinion doesn't mean it's true, Jim. Sorry to shatter your fantasies and dash your dreams."

"But it's not only my opinion, is it?"

"...No. But still."

"Again, I ask, who else thinks you two are a couple?" _Ooh, he's getting angry. Yay! Just as planned._

_"…_his brother, Detective Lestrade, our land l- Mrs. Hudson, practically the entire police force—"

"So why won't you just admit it already?"

Standing up briskly, John took a few steps towards me. "Jim, lay off it already. I've already been too nice as to tolerate your interrogation, so please stop."

"What if I say no?"

"Then you might actually have an external injury to add to that list," he pointed his head towards the clipboard that was still resting on one of the chairs.

My Cheshire cat grin returned with a vengeance. "Well when you put it that way…No!"

I then felt a fist connect with the side of my face, shoving me over backwards and onto the floor. John stalked over and glared down at me. "Stop."

"Or what, you'll punch me again?"

"Yes, something along those lines."

I braced for impact, but before Watson could make another pass, the door opened, revealing a small and timid nurse bearing the results of the scan. The young man looked from one of us to the other with a questioning eye.

"Oh, he uhm, he fell, I was just about to help him back up. Isn't that right, Jim?"

"Oh, uh, yes, that's right. Thanks." He helped me back up a bit more roughly than what was necessary and flipped through photographs from the scan. The nurse left, probably glad to leave the awkwardly tense situation behind him.

John kept flipping until he abruptly stopped on one page, letting out a short exhale of air.

"'Scuse me, Jim, I have to make a call." He excused himself to another room and left me to wait.

_So much waiting._

_Too much waiting._

_Where are you?_

_…Who are you? Why do I feel like you should have come to get me by now? What's stopped you from doing your job?_

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**__****Note: Sorry it took so long to update- blame school. And the rest of the internet for distracting me from being productive.**

**I hope you enjoy! :D I will begin work on the next chapter as soon as my schedule gives me a decent block of time for it, I promise~**


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